


Steal the Stars From Your Sky

by thirdtimecharmed



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M, Prostitution, Urchins - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-25
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-15 00:22:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/521071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirdtimecharmed/pseuds/thirdtimecharmed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Sam Winchester grew up on the streets while their father fought foreign battles as a mercenary. As they fight their way into a world that's working against them, they unwittingly play into the hands of much bigger forces fighting for power. Will the youngest son of the last powerful family left uncontrolled be able to help them disentangle themselves from the webs of intrigue? And will that be enough for the boys, when all is said and done?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_It had taken Dean less than a month to slide into a life of petty crime. Not that his young mind had that definition ready for what he was doing- to him, it was basic survival. Money had been tight even before his dad left for a northern campaign, and then things got drastically worse. At first he had begged, joining a pantheon of children from all walks of life. Some of them did song and dance numbers for attention; others had missing limbs or milky blind eyes. Dean only had Sammy, and while that was sometimes enough to tip a sympathetic purse in their favor, it wasn’t enough to get by. The check that his dad had promised never came, and they got booted out of the loft they had been renting. That was in May, and they had a summer of sleeping in sheltered alleyways, which was fine until it rained. Then Sammy would cry about how he was hungry and cold, how he missed Dad. He would ask Dean where their mother was. Dean would hug him, give him more food than they could spare, and tell him stories- stupid, pointless stories, things he made up on the spot- until he slept. When it became a choice between morality and starving to death, Dean took the practical option. Of course, he was terrible at it at first. He would try too hard to be casual, or not try hard enough. He’d had his hands swatted at by every merchant in the main square at least twice, but he was hungry._

_The fountain was a gamble, and a serious one. If he got the city patrol angry with him, he’d be in jail and Sam would have to fend for himself. But the coins that glistened below the water were too tempting to a small hungry boy, and after all, he reasoned with himself as he forced his cold feet into the colder water, people already gave these up. They shouldn’t want them. When it became clear that no one was going to give him a second glance, he filled his pockets full to bursting with damp coin.  It was his best day in half a year, so when he saw a serious looking blue eyed boy staring at him with huge eyes, he just grinned, winked, and ran off. In another market square, far off, he washed the dirt off his face and managed to buy things under the guise of a boy running errands for his mom. It was the best meal he and Sammy had eaten in ages._

_There were always going to be more problems than there were solutions, of course. He couldn’t always take coins from the fountain, and it was getting too cold to sleep in the open. One problem had an easy solution; Dean just got better and better at snatching things before people could notice. The trick was to watch everyone else, see when their eyes were elsewhere, and then strike fast. Sometimes people would call out to him, and put up a snit, but it is far easier for a small boy to vanish in a great big city than it is for him to be noticed._

_Unless, of course, the person doing the noticing is a well-dressed boy with messy hair. Dean, eternal crowd watcher that he was, started noticing the boy even when the boy didn’t notice him. He always seemed to be around when Dean was stealing something, and of course he always noticed. His unblinking gaze started making Dean feel shifty, as if the boy was just waiting for the perfect time to get him arrested. It didn’t matter though. Sammy needed that coat, and Dean was going to take it. Right now, all they had was a stable they could crawl into through a hole in the back. It was public and smelly, but the horses were warm. Dean knew it couldn’t last forever, though, and every day he looked out for other places they could hide. There were plenty: crypts and sewers and hidey nooks, but all of them were cold stone and iron._

_The day he stole the coat, though, he found a blessing. Most people would have called it a rotted out abandoned caravan, but it was definitely a blessing. It was out of the way, it was sheltered, and the door still worked. The inside was full of cobwebs, but it had a bed and some cupboards, even a rusty tin stove if he could find something to burn in it. Sam was awestruck._

_“Is this ows?” he asked, looking around, then breaking into a massive smile, “it’s wawm Dean! And thewe’s a bed!”_

_Dean laughed, happy for the second time in so many months. “You bet, Sammy.”_

* * *

 

            Dean stole and kept them alive. Sometimes, their dad would return. It would be two years; he’d have new scars and stories, and always enough money to keep them alive for a few months. Dean would know seven more ways to pick a lock, and Sam would have another book mysteriously added to his collection. Both boys would grow six inches in his absence. John Winchester would hold them on his lap, even when Dean started protesting at age 13, and Sam started getting just as big as his older brother; when the boys would barely fit and make fun of him for being such a sissy, but John was only ever back for a month at a time. Maybe. He’d stay at a tavern, a cheap one, usually Bobby’s. The three of them would share a room and have light and fires and good meals steadily. Every time, his boys would ask why he had to go, when he’d be coming back, and he could never give them a straight answer. Sam would fall asleep early, nuzzled into the mattress and holding some nondescript raggedy thing Dean had managed to steal for him.

            “Son,” John would say sternly, looking down at his oldest boy, “You taking care of your brother?”

            “Yessir,” Dean would say, making straight eye contact, and with all the trained proficiency of a foot soldier. “Only… it would be easier if we could go with you. For money, I mean,” he would add, quick to defend his own abilities as a caretaker.

            “Dean, you know it’s too dangerous. I’m not dragging you or your brother into a war zone,” John would sigh, “I know its hard, but eventually we’ll save up enough to buy a farm. Live somewhere, forever.”

            “Yessir, I know,” Dean’s head would sag, “Next time, will you teach me how to throw daggers?”

            John’s whole expression would collapse in those moments, watching his son try and ruin his own life.

            “Sure, Dean” he’d say, “Now go to bed, you’re going to wake up your brother.”

            Dean would nod dutifully, and John would be gone in the morning- no matter how early he tried to wake up.

            He’d be back in two years. In the interim, it was Dean’s job to keep Sam fed, to keep Sam entertained, and mostly, to keep Sam from having a criminal record. It was hard, especially as he edged towards age six. He couldn’t be an accomplice, and Dean couldn’t leave him alone all day- there was nothing for him to do. Dean was up a creek, until he found a school. It wasn’t a nice school, but it was a cheap school, and even then it was too much for an income of ‘nothing steady’. Sam got a week of free lessons, and he would talk Dean’s ear off about everything he’d learned that day. As Monday turned into Wednesday and Saturday rolled around, Sam’s pleading eyes fixed on Dean incessantly.

            Even with a thousand speeches in his head _‘Sam we can’t afford it… Sam it isn’t very good…’_ Dean couldn’t figure out how to turn Sam down. So he enrolled him, with a note that had their father’s signature forged very carefully. Neither of them worried too much about that, though. Sam wasn’t the only kid there with shady roots.

            Now, Dean had tuition to pay. He started working jobs. Not real, respectable jobs- who would hire an urchin to do anything?- but he ran messages between gangs, even doing small hits. He was careful, though, to keep himself out of it. He had heard of too many murders and fights, and even though the money was good, he couldn’t risk dragging Sam into it. When his father returned, Dean kept silent on gang involvement. Instead he told John he ran odd jobs for Bobby, which was partly true. Sometimes he swept the floor, or cleaned the drainpipe, or rearranged the stores in the cellar. It took him a while, but Dean slowly realized that every time Bobby sent for him, something horrible happened in one gang or another. Once, during a mass riot, Bobby hid both Sam and Dean under his bar all day, slipping them pieces of bread and knowing winks alternately. Dean knew better than to thank Bobby directly, but the two of them both knew that the other one knew, and that was enough.

            As Dean got older, the less dangerous gang jobs started to dry up. There was always some stupid kid willing to risk his ass for less than Dean would charge, and Dean was bigger and stronger now. At every turn he was met with a ham fisted recruiter, who never realized that mercenaries’ kids were well trained at fighting; or at least well trained at skidding into a secret alleyway and vanishing from the map. At the age of sixteen, he was considering casing huge houses or local businesses to get by. He didn’t know where he could sell whatever he stole, though. Gangs would cheat him, store owners would spit on him, and if anyone happened to know what house that particular silver spoon had vanished from, he’d be toast. Inspiration struck, however, when he saw a girl’s eyes tracing him up and down as he walked by.

            It became one more thing he would never, ever, tell his father about. Even Sam didn’t know. He told Sam that Bobby had hired him full time, and that he cleaned tables late into the night. He let Bobby assume he’d joined a gang. His father never thought to ask, and his father was never there to stop Dean from walking down the road he had instinctually avoided ever since he was a child. Shaded red lamps hung in the front, overblown flowers hung off of balconies, and giggles drifted through opened windows. He had to choke back his own revulsion. He had to remember Sam coming home one day with a book he had been leant, buzzing about god knows what historical event from four thousand years ago. Steeling himself, he took the road until he found a place that didn’t look as scummy as the rest, and walked in. His jaw set stubbornly as the woman waiting to receive him on a chaise lounge looked him up and down.

            “Are you buying or selling, love?” she asked with a quick wink, baring a little more of her ankle.

            “Selling,” he said with a grimace, and her flirtatious demeanor dropped instantly.

            “Then you’ll want Don’s office.” she said, sizing Dean up once more, “It’s your first time, isn’t it?”

            He nodded, and she sighed, “Then listen to me, and pay attention. Don’t let him swindle you. You’re a good-looking kid; you’ll bring in business. Make sure you keep as much of the profit as you can. Always take tips. And drop the sullen purity crap, there’s no place for it here. You’re either in or you’re not. Nobody likes a moral whore.” She shoved him towards a curtained door to the right “Go get ‘em champ.”

            Dean went. He was met with a plush office interior with a deep maroon carpet that sucked in his bare feet. Sitting center stage was a well dressed (to Dean’s eye) middle-aged man, not much older than his own father.

            “How old are you?” he asked, not looking up from his papers.

            “Eighteen.” Dean answered without hesitation, staring straight ahead.

            “You’re a shitty actor, boy,” the man smirked, still not looking up, “You can’t be a day over sixteen. If you want to work in this business, you’d better learn how to lie.”

            Dean nodded, unblinking, to the portrait hanging over the man’s head.

            “Your name?” he asked, “And don’t bother me with your real one, no one cares about that here.”

            “D- uh,” he hedged. He hadn’t thought this far. Thievery he knew, street etiquette, he knew. This protocol was completely different, and entirely wrong.

            “How about…” the man finally looked up, and met Dean’s eyes for the first time. “Christ kid, you’re a looker, I’ll give you that much.” It was about as much as Dean had expected. “Try this: I’ll call you Rich, and you call me Don. Sound good?” Don’s eyes crinkled at the irony, Dean just nodded woodenly.

            He waited for further instructions, not making eye contact, or speaking up. It was a full five minutes before Don looked up again, rolled his eyes, and shooed Dean away.  

            “Christ kid, can’t you wait to ruin your life? Come back tomorrow, we’ll talk business.”

            Dean was gone before the woman out front could ask him how it went. He was out of the alley before she could roll her eyes at the stupid innocence of fresh meat. He stole someone’s purse just to blow off steam. All it contained was a comb, a handkerchief, and a note in loopy handwriting. He threw all but the comb down an alleyway- maybe he could sell it later. Sammy’s hair was getting long.

            It was three AM when he crawled into the caravan, and when Sam woke up, Dean was passed out in his usual spot on the floor.

            For weeks and years, this is how it went. Dean worked night shifts, learning how to fake interest, how to fake love, how to earn more tips. He stopped making eye contact, started smiling and drawling out words and pretending just as hard as he could. Whoring paid well, he thought between customers when there was nothing between himself and painful introspection. Sam was in secondary school now, training to be a lawyer. Or a doctor. Or a veterinarian or a blacksmith. Between days sleeping on a floor, Dean had lost track of the little brother he was doing it all for. Still, there was food on the table, a shirt on his back (on occasion- Dean never stayed dressed for long). More importantly, there was a chance for Sam, and that was all he could reasonably hope for in the long run.

            It used to be hard, every year or so when their dad would return. Dean would have to sneak out, to beg time off. He’d have to shake off a year of sleaze and grime and lies to deal with his father like a soldier would; or he’d have to pretend to, anyway. Then, John didn’t come back. At first, they both thought it was a fluke- a battle taking longer, an extended contract, a broken limb. Then six months went by. Then another year. He was 16 the last time he’d seen his father- now he was more than legally entitled to sell his body to the random predatorial rich men and women who wanted to take a walk on the wild side, and he took full advantage. At least, he would reflect every now and then at the news of a noblewoman with a new green-eyed baby miraculously springing forth in the midst of a loveless marriage, the situation was mutually destructive.


	2. Chapter 2

         The cloak and dagger element was pointless now. It would take Castiel all twenty digits twice over to count the number of times he’s seen family friends in the red light districts. Often the men would greet each other, make a bawdy ribbing comment or two, and pass on with their night. They had the luxury of relative unimportance. He, the youngest son of the most powerful family in Caldierri, had no such luxury. If the world knew of his habits, especially his… preference, there would be no saving the family from its inevitable fall from grace. Still, the dark of night and the smoky lanterns provided more than enough cover for him to make it into his preferred establishment in the dead of night.

            Of course, if he had his way he’d never be here. If he were born as anyone else, he could have chosen relationships based on mutual affection, rather than affordability (although, to him, everyone was affordable). Were he some farmer’s son, or a ship captain’s boy, he could take social ostracism, vague mutters behind people’s hands, and run away with whomever he chose.

            Sometimes he still thought about it.

            Then guilt and Anna would come to mind. Anna, with her pretty red hair and soft voice, and her secret spitfire sense of humor. Anna, who knew he didn’t love her; who didn’t love him either. Anna: the perfect arranged spouse, if that was all he wanted from life.

            He had to marry Anna. It was politics, it was money, it was the thread that kept their society together if his parents had any say in it.

            “I’m the youngest out of everyone,” he would say, fruitlessly, “Why not marry her to someone older? Perhaps Uriel?”

            “Uriel has a job, Castiel,” his mother would gently admonish, only her icy blue eyes betraying her disapproval, “he has duties and distractions. You, from what I can tell, live off of what is given to you. A wife will give you direction.”

            “A wife will also give them thousands more in coin every year,” he would mutter to Anna later. She’d hide an unladylike snort in a coughing fit, and gentleman that he was, he would overfill her glass with wine.

            It wouldn’t be a bad marriage, he thought, pushing open the door. Just a loveless one. 

            “Ah, Mr…” the woman working the front gave an obvious wink, “Ah.. 'Novak', was it? I’m afraid I have some unfortunate news for you.”

            Everyone here, it seemed, knew who he was already.

            “And what would that be?” he asked, casually. Bad news could be anything from a delay to a cancellation to a ‘there’s a raid expected tonight, you’d best go home now’ and a saucy pat on the bum.

            “I’m afraid your usual is out today, and, ah, maybe forever. We think he got married,” she confided in a delicious whisper, “that’s always exciting.”

            “I see,” Castiel nodded, wrestling between disappointment and relief that maybe now he could get out, move on, forget his indiscretions and settle down in some semblance of normal. Inherit some of Anna’s money. Run a string of carefully concealed affairs… he shook himself out of his trance “I’ll be going then,” he said, with a polite nod, and began to turn. Desperation was evidenced in the woman’s voice as she cried “Wait, sir, wait!” and Castiel remembered belatedly that his purse full of money was more than enough to ensnare him for life.

            “We can find you a replacement, I’m sure,” she said with an accommodating smile, “I assume you’d like to keep most factors the same?” The unspoken question being ‘do you still prefer males?’ He nodded, still prompted to look both ways in case there was someone somewhere in this place who would give half a damn. There was, as usual, no one.

            “There’s one free tonight, just your luck,” she grinned at him, “a little pricier, but I assume that’s no issue.”

            “No,” Castiel said, then cursed himself. He could stop this- he should stop this, he knew. At the same time, though, he couldn’t. The woman looked at him pointedly until he slipped her an extra coin, which she immediately tucked into her brassiere. He hoped that she would remember to remove it before her next client- while men largely recognized the general motives of a prostitute, the visual reminder never failed to kill even the most passionate playacting.

            “Upstairs, then,” she smiled radiantly, “second door on the left.”

            Lattice and lace lined the familiar stairway, but it felt wrong as he faced the other side of the hallway. He had to laugh at himself then, acting like a young girl on her wedding night. Lord knew this whorehouse was as familiar to him as his own backyard; there was no reason to get shy now.         

            There was no reason not to be polite, however, and his light rap on the door was answered with a sultry ‘come in.’

            Whoever this… replacement, he hesitated to name them, was, he had the immediate advantage of being jaw droppingly attractive. Castiel barely had time to notice the almost predatory smirk sliding across his face, since he was too busy staring at his barely concealed torso.

            “You’re new.”

            Castiel swallowed once, then collected himself, “Only new to you.”

            The man raised an eyebrow. “Rich,” he introduced himself, giving a once over in lieu of a handshake.

            “Castiel,” he responded, unable to stop a little smile from breaking through his shaking nerves, “a pleasure to meet you.”

            “Well, not a pleasure yet,” Rich reminded him, grinning, and Castiel relaxed.

            “Presumably it will be at some point,” he said, slowly sliding into the accepted script.

            “Fair point,” Rich beamed, “Speaking of which," he slid up and slunk towarsd Castiel, "what say we move that up to sooner, rather than later.”

            Rich was right behind him, running a hand up his arm and whispering low in his ear. Castiel hummed his assent, almost hypnotized.

            “That sounds like an excellent plan,” he growled, twisting around to ensnare Rich. Their lips met in an unfamiliar crunch, which slowly turned into a battle for dominance. Castiel had one up on Rich in terms of layers to remove, but Rich was an excellent whore, whatever else he may have been. Castiel shed layers all around the room, alternating between pushing and being pushed into walls. In a flurry of caressing and pulling, Castiel ended up pinning Rich to the bed, their bodies glued together from toe to torso. Rich let out a pleased moan.

            “You know,’ he said conversationally, “pants come off too.”

            “You don’t say,” Castiel rumbled, running his hands over Rich’s thighs, “how interesting.”

            He lightened the pressure of his hands to a teasing slide, making Rich roll his hips up. Castile smiled, and cupped his crotch through the fabric. The resulting moan was perfect, and he nipped his throat in appreciation. Then he moved down, nipping his collarbone, dragging his hands after him down Rich’s torso until he reached the button on his pants.  

            “Who knew these were removable,” he grinned, then trailed his tongue at the very edge as Rich panted beneath him. Before Castiel could continue teasing, he found himself pulled up firmly, and pinned on his back under a very forceful, very intent Rich. He opened his mouth to protest, and found it covered by a hot wet pressure- less a kiss than an order to silence. He acquiesced, reaching around to pull Rich’s trousers down, not bothering to unbutton them. Rich ground against him, and his hands expertly unfastened Castiel’s belt buckle. Then, there were no layers between them, and what had been need was suddenly desperate, choking desire. Rich’s lips were around his cock before Castiel could think straight, and after that there was no hope at all. His mouth fell open in a gasp and he rolled his hips forward, his hand curling into Rich’s hair. Rich grinned, and licked a wet trail up from the base to the head, before taking the whole thing into his mouth in a practiced stroke. Castiel groaned and tensed, letting sensation take over as Rich did something impossible with his tongue and Castiel’s nails dug into his scalp. Time vanished into nothing as Rich moved up to tease the head of his cock, then take the whole thing again, and it only started up as Castiel tensed for the final time, and Rich suddenly stopped. At Castiel’s whimper, he grinned wickedly, pushing him back from his sitting position.

            “That can’t be all you want,” he purred, trailing kisses back up Castiel’s torso, until their hips were square and their erections were flush against each other. The assent was not verbal, but Castiel thrust his hips forward and pulled Rich closer, the friction making both of them moan. Castiel reached his hand downward, wrapped it around both cocks, and began pumping purposefully. Rich moaned, leaning his forehead into Castiel’s chest, and Castiel grinned and picked up the pace. Before long, they were both panting, thrusting into Castiel’s hand and against each other, leaving telltale hickeys on necks and shoulders. Castiel lost control first, frenetically pumping his hand and releasing with a satisfied moan that pushed Rich over the edge as well.

            Sticky, panting, and satisfied, Rich rolled off of Castiel to lay by his side, grinning.

            “Well Castiel, you make a good first impression.”

            It was always the script that shattered the moment. Highly intentional, Castiel supposed in the corner of his mind that was still able to feel disgust.

            “Hopefully my second won’t fail to disappoint. For your part, you are…” he fumbled “most exemplary.”

            Rich furrowed his eyebrows for half of a fraction of a second, but then his face cleared.

            “That’s a first, but hell we’ll call it even. Come again soon,” he added, with a wink and an extended palm, “The washroom’s down the hallway, but of course I’m sure you know that.”

            “I’m familiar,” Castiel said with a tense smile, and, having paid his dues, he went to wash off the night. 

* * *

_If he hadn’t been hurried through the square on his family’s official business, he could have seen where the boy had run off. Hopefully somewhere indoors, Castiel thought idly, catching the November chill in the air. This was no time of year to be diving in fountains, and no time of day to be stealing coins. He grinned at the very thought- stealing people’s wishes in broad daylight. Hiding in plain sight, simply because you were doing something no one had thought to do before. He wasn’t positive, but he was almost sure the boy had winked at him, before disappearing behind a fat man and his line of chickens. When Castiel twisted himself around (much to his brother’s chagrin) the boy had vanished completely._

_It wasn’t until two weeks later that the boy made another appearance (in the same clothes. Castiel’s forehead wrinkled a bit). This time, he was loitering beside merchant’s stalls, and taking an apple here, a loaf of bread here. Always when the merchant was busy, always when he was sure no one was looking. Once the food was in his hand, it seemed to disappear in various secret pockets and hidden folds of his clothing, and he was about to disappear himself, when he saw Castiel watching him. This time, instead of a wink and a grin, he gave a warier look. Castiel instantly looked away, not wanting the boy to think he’d tell, or raise an alarm._

_As the first dusting of the first snow of the winter fell over the city, Castiel saw the boy for the last time. Someone had left a jacket, a thick, massive thing, hanging in an open tavern door, and the boy was sneaking up to is as if it were a live animal, rather than a piece of fabric. He would wander one way, then another, then cross the square. When it became apparent, by the time that had passed, and the raucous noise from inside the tavern itself, that no owner was coming out any time soon to find it, he darted over like lightning and it was gone. Castiel couldn’t help being impressed, although in his ten year old innocence, he wondered why the other boy bothered to steal something as boring as a coat. Coins and food were exciting and instantly consumable. Why didn’t he just buy his own coat? The coat that was now draped over the shoulders of a much younger boy, who was constantly pushing up the sleeves as he tried to keep pace with Castiel’s boy. The boy Castiel had been watching, he mentally corrected himself, before being scolded for staring at nothing and looking like a gaping idiot._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while. If y'all keep at me, I will actually do my best to finish this.

Everything was grey as Dean wandered home, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Even the sky was colorless. Too early for the common people to begin their day, and just past closing time for the more risqué establishments, the city was silent. Dean stood tall as he picked through the slums back to the old caravan, but his gait was purposeful and direct. No sense loitering and begging for trouble.  
Sam was asleep amongst a pile of ink and paper at the tiny table in the corner. His head nearly touched the far wall, and as he turned, ‘and thusly sdfklj’ was printed in reverse on his cheek. Dean rolled his eyes and grabbed under Sam’s shoulders, heaving him up. The kid barely stopped snoring, but enough reflex took over to allow Dean to carrywalk him over to the bed and throw him down with a thump that made the walls shudder. Sam rolled under the blanket without protest, and by the time he woke up, dazed and confused, Dean was out cold in his usual spot on the floor.   
Dean could sleep through the apocalypse, but Sam was always careful to be quiet in the mornings. He could shuffle papers in dead silence, grab whatever they had to eat for later, and open and close the door without making a creak. More recently, he’d learned how to disguise the shink of the knife he kept in his belt at all times, and how to silently pry up the floorboard to get to his small stockpile of money.  
He crouched for a moment, staring at the coins shining in his hand. They could pay for a month of school. Dean could save his money from work; maybe they could start renting a real room.   
Sam closed the coins in his fist. If he tried anything, he’d have to explain where it came from, and Dean would know. Who knows what Dean would do, but he’d know, and Sam (in his heart of hearts) knew enough to be ashamed.  
Dean rolled over and snorted, and Sam stuffed the money in his pocket. Ruby took a hefty cut, but her handler took an equally hefty cut out of what she pulled in. It could be worse.   
As the clock tower chimed seven, Sam Winchester raced out of the caravan late for school, with most of his homework unfinished, a knife in his belt, and plans that would make his brother’s close-cropped hair curl.   
On the way, he gave half of his lunch to the stray cat that had worked this daily donation into its schedule. 

 

Dean’s dreams whited out of existence when a knot in his back woke him up. He half sat up, stretched, swore, sat the rest of the way up, and ended up perched on the side of the bed, staring at the tiny black stove. Sam was gone (at school, Dean judged, hearing the bell strike one fifteen), the place was as clean as it was going to get, and work didn’t start ‘til nine. This was the worst part of the day.  
Working and sleeping required no thought. He could spend all day in bed with a rotating crew of people without absorbing a single detail that didn’t involve payments. A good day was a good-tip day, a bad day was a raid day. His dreams always faded, leaving vague impressions of fire or icy stone or the swish of steel in a foreign land. Not pleasant, but uncomplicated.   
If he had a hobby, maybe, or a family of more than two, it would be just the opposite, but it was the day that left Dean with his thoughts. Shopping cheap and haggling let him yell off his steam at some poor greasy merchant, but it always meant spending what little money he’d managed to squirrel away.   
Sometimes he picked pocketbooks, conned barflies in card games, or swiped food off of merchant’s stands, just to prove to himself that he could. Plus, the extra whatever never hurt. Sometimes he was a barfly. He’d wash dishes for drinks, and fuzz the edges of his mind until thought was impossible.   
Sometimes, though, he couldn’t be assed. Sometimes the day before had been so bad, or the nightmare edged into consciousness enough that he couldn’t make himself get up. He had every crack in their roof memorized, from the days where all he could manage to do was stare up, wondering how he got to this point in his life.   
Today, though, he was up, and against all his efforts, he was thinking again. There was nothing that should have been thought provoking about yesterday. Yesterday was like all the days before it, all the ones he was able to erase, but one phrase had lodged itself in his mind, and was in the process of digging its way in.  
Dean was no stranger to compliments. His eyes, his face, his body, his voice, his ‘technique,’ had all been mentioned more than once. However, the style of compliment was closer to the accepted lines. He’d heard “You’re amazing” “You’re glorious” “What’s a boy like you doing in a place like this?” and most notably “When I’m with my wife, I imagine it’s you instead.” That one, at least, had warranted a raised eyebrow.  
Not once in his entire career, though, had he been called “most exemplary.” The language felt more like the report cards Sam brought home once in a blue moon, not the words a whorehouse patron would use, talking about his newest purchase.  
Dean shook his head to clear it. The whorehouse didn’t exist in the daylight hours. He couldn’t let it, so he sprung out of the bed and paced the ten steps from the front of the wagon to the back. With each step, he imagined keeping the memories down, grinding them into the floorboards. It never worked anyway, he allowed, as his memory recounted a very faithful rendition of his newest longtime patron. He couldn’t help wondering who the bastard was.   
The caravan was too small to pace adequately, and he winded up walking the streets, headed vaguely toward Bobby’s. He let his feet carry him where they would, only half paying attention to the housewives and grubby children that swirled around him, or the carts that threatened to run him over. Out of habit more than hunger, he snagged a roll off of a baker’s display and dug in as he approached the river.


End file.
